I cut my arm, and parts of my leg. On my arm was in a location that was pretty apparent, and at work that was not socially acceptable. Some people asked me about it and I brushed it off. It was one of the points I started thinking that my feeling sad wasn’t the average feeling sad. Cutting seems obvious as a thing that isn’t ‘average’ or ‘normal,’ but my feelings being so deeply sad we’re not as obvious to me until there was a tangible result providing evidence of that sadness. Even though I had considered suicide many times before that, there was something more real about the physical damage. I cut to feel the pain at first, and to see the blood. Then it felt sort of reassuring when it would heal. I also liked that in our culture of everything that is supposed to be perfect (straight white teeth, fit physique, nice clothes, nice car, nice house, attractive mate, fresh haircut, nice smelling fragrance, etc) I chose to have this non-perfect part of myself. At this point in my life, I have fucked everything up so bad that cutting seems like nothing in comparison. Now I don’t give a shit about any of that. I don’t even dress in a way that seems presentable, and I might wear the same shirt 5 days in a row. Don’t remotely care. That’s not a statement like ‘you shouldn’t worry about what other people think,’ it’s more like ‘fuck it, life matters none and I will be gone soon.’ I don’t even feel that I have the energy to imagine why I cared about any of that other dumb shit at any point in the past. Anyway, long tangent. But about cutting, It’s weird, when I do it, it’s pretty easy, with an exacto knife. But when I think about it, like right now, it gives me the willies. Seems like nonsense.